


captain's pips

by tincanspaceship



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dysphoria, F/F, Gender Dysphoria, Morning Kisses, Scars, Shore Leave, Swimming, Trans Michael, because why not??, my girls are cuddling and having a very good morning, yep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2019-12-27 00:32:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18293246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tincanspaceship/pseuds/tincanspaceship
Summary: Philippa and Michael have a pleasant shore leave on Pulau Langkawi as Philippa recovers from Klingon captivity.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TW for mentions of scars + a description of said scars.

Michael wakes in a sugary-sweet haze, and takes a moment to catalogue the sensations around her before she opens her eyes and invites her headache in.

Her head is resting on a cushioned pillow, the softness of the pillowcase unusually smooth.

_Philippa's, then. Must have stolen one._

Langkawi saltwater fills her nostrils, and bright sun shines on her face, warming her cheeks and filling her eyelids with orange. Flecks of chocolate are still stuck to her molars, and she runs her tongue over the stubborn sweet. Her jeans and casual shirt from yesterday are still on, crumpled and quite possibly smeared with the remnants of Philippa's cake, and she can feel a pleasant warmth on her hip where her shirt has rolled up and the sun has heated her skin.

The sun on her hip stirs, and Michael comes to the realization that those are fingers. Philippa's coarse, scarred hands, resting so lightly on Michael's hipbone.

And Michael remembers, she remembers the strange tension of Philippa's cake-making, she remembers her flour-covered hands holding Philippa's cheeks, whispering things she thought she'd never say out loud, the most tranquil of kisses, Philippa's quiet request for _slow_ , and the cake and Philippa leaning into her as their vintage movie plays on the shiny display and Michael weaving their fingers together and Philippa, pulling her to bed so Michael can protect her from the things that lurk at the back of her mind.

Michael lets her eyes slide open. Philippa faces her. Her eyelids are low, but not shut, and Michael can't help but notice the hair is pulled back from her slashed eye, the scar visible. In fact, Michael can see her arms, as well, her collarbones and shoulders, most of her legs. They are marked, marked with destructive twists and white patches of acid, burns and the remains of self-sewn stitches, the bruises still hanging on to her fragile form after weeks, and something new, something Michael hasn't seen before, that slams her in the gut.

Four brands along her clavicle, burns heavily pressed in her skin.

_Captain's pips._

And Michael _has_ to lean over and kiss Philippa right then.

“Mm. Morning, darling,” Philippa murmurs, running her fingers up and down Michael's side. Michael lifts her arm to stroke Philippa's too-prominent cheekbones, tears collecting in her eyes, warm wind blowing across her from the window. “Is something wrong?”

“I think you're beautiful, Philippa,” Michael whispers, throat hoarse. Philippa looks at Michael, her right eye a milky-chocolate colour, the scar extending from above her eyebrow to the corner of her lip. Michael leans in until their noses touch, their foreheads press together, and Michael's breathing mixes with Philippa's.

“Is it my scars? Michael, I should have asked before showing them to you, it was dark and you couldn’t see. I'm sorry, darling girl,” Philippa apologizes, letting her hand drift from Michael's hip to her arm. Michael shakes her head.

“No, you didn't have to ask. I'm...I didn't see how much they had done to you, Philippa. I only saw the report, and text couldn't have prepared me for any of this.”

Michael, to her horror, recalls some of the awful things she'd seen on Philippa's medical report.

_Trauma to right eye--_

_\--severe malnutrition, dehydration--_

_\--lingering concussions--_

_\--broken ribs, healed poorly--_

_\--eardrum broken on left side--_

_\--left leg paralyzed and heavily injured from mid-thigh downwards--_

_\--missing thumb--_

_\--infected cut on left arm--_

_\--broken nose, cartilage damaged--_

_\--mutilation of chest and stomach--_

Michael forces herself to stop there. She hazards a glance to Philippa's new leg, gleaming silver and white in the sunshine. Philippa laughs.

“Jealous?” Philippa tosses her leg over Michael's thigh, and Michael lets herself laugh.

“Very.” Michael tilts her head to kiss her again, and Philippa smiles and kisses her back, moving her hand up to Michael's cheek.

“Mmh, love, you don't give yourself enough credit,” Philippa says, breathlessly, closing her eyes again. “For a beginner, you're good at kissing.”

“I'm not a beginner, Philippa!” Michael protests.

“Oh, really?” Philippa says, dryly, an eyebrow raised. “How many people have you kissed?”

“Four,” Michael admits, fully aware she will lose this argument.

“How many girls?” Philippa asks, draping her arm across Michael's waist.

“Two, not including you.”

“Who were they?” Philippa questions, smirking and leaning into Michael a little more.

“This girl at a book swap my mother took me to on my tenth birthday. She traded me a book with a queer romance, because I wasn't sure I was straight and wanted to read something with girls who loved girls for research. And she looked around and pecked me on the lips, with this solemn expression on her face. I never told Amanda or Sarek about that…I never told them I was bisexual, either, but Amanda made sure to explain men, women, and other people to me, when I asked about... _things_.” Michael feels her face warm.

Philippa laughs at Michael's blush. She kisses her cheeks.

“My silly duckling, you don't have to be so shy about this. Who else did you kiss?”

“Oh, I can't believe I'm going to tell you this…” Michael shakes her head, with a grin. “ _Keyla_.”

Philippa snorts. “ _Our_ Keyla? Fly-girl extraordinaire? Too-good-for-romance, the-stars-are-my-only-love Keyla?”

Michael nods. “We had a bit of a thing. A month or so, it was never serious. But she had to show me a lot of things. Like how to kiss girls. And cuddle,” Michael says, sheepishly.

“Oh, baby, you are so adorable. Doesn't she have a girlfriend now?”

“Joann Owosekun. Or Owo, which keeps making Rhys snort, and I'm not sure why. She and Keyla are a good match.”

Philippa smiles. “I'm glad, _bibi_. Now, will you admit you're a beginner?”

Michael laughs and wraps an arm around Philippa's waist, tugging her close with an oh!. Michael grins and pulls Philippa into a kiss. Philippa returns the affection, leaning up and holding onto Michael's neck, her leg sliding along Michael's jeans. Philippa hums.

“Could a...could a beginner do that?” Michael whispers, and Philippa smiles, jovial warmth in her eyes.

"I'm weak!" Philippa protests, with a scowl.

Michael raises an eyebrow playfully.

“It was _thoroughly_ enjoyable," Philippa admits, lazily batting at Michael's stomach.

“Would you like me to do it again?”

“I feel that would be medically inadvisable. Cuddle with me?” Philippa half-requests, half-demands.

Michael obliges, and they don't move for a very long time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I've ended up making another chapter. The trigger warnings for scars + descriptions of scars still apply to this chapter, and the dysphoria tag applies here. I'd recommend not reading this chapter if that's uncomfortable or triggering for you.

Philippa yawns and rubs her eyes, keeping them firmly shut. A pulsing comes to the back of her forehead, and she grumbles, the first twinges of a headache coming to her mind.

 

_Reminder -- tell Tracy the headaches aren’t gone._

 

Michael’s arm is carefully draped across her side, the base of her palm smooth against Philippa’s hip. Her fingers rest against Philippa’s stomach. Breath blooms against the prominent vertebrae at the top of Philippa’s back, Michael’s nose at the base of Philippa’s skull, her curls interwoven with Philippa’s hair. Michael has herself flush against Philippa’s back, warm comfort down her spine, her knees nestled in the back of Philippa’s, real and artificial, cool toes tickling at Philippa’s heel.

 

The covers over them are comfortable and puffy and Michael’s gift to Philippa, after Michael had officially moved in. The pillows, too, soft and just right. Philippa runs her fingers over her collarbone, the texture still burned, but Michael’s other gifts lie on her scars, and even with her eyes shut tight, the soothing effect remains. She presses her fingers against her wrist, the motion engraved into her memory, checking her pulse.

 

_Still alive. Still here._

 

Her fingertips trace the inside of her arm, where she knows a deconstructed telescope sits, the labels meticulously studied. She smiles. Her mind lists Michael’s gifts, Michael’s art permanently held on her body, the disguises for the scars that mark her.

 

_-vine on stitches, Philippa's favourite flowers entwining her bicep-_

 

_-soundwave on burn, Michael's soft rendition of_ darling _over the slash on her thigh-_

 

_-Earth’s moon, blending with the white patches on her skin-_

 

_-pips over pips, starred galaxy captain's pips over the brand-_

 

_-telescope over cut, the deconstruction of her favourite item diagrammed by Michael-_

 

_-star chart--_

 

Michael had built Philippa a star chart. A new one that traced across the whole of her body, hiding every scar, masking her in a cloud of points and lines. Right over Philippa's heart, there was a heart-constellation, lined up over the chambers and tubes of her physical heart. Michael had done a fair amount of work on what remained of Philippa's chest and stomach, finding ways to flatten scars and cover the discolouration, and it had payed off. Philippa holds her hands over the flat expanse where her heart lies. Michael had spent hours building new constellations, new stars, and now they existed on Philippa, they lived with her. She was a walking artwork.

 

Philippa sometimes wondered if L'rell had planned for her to feel dysphoric. For the feeling of her body being _wrong_ , the leg that didn't exist and the ribs that protrude through her skin, the scarred, mutilated skin on her flat chest. Michael had listened to Philippa describing these feelings. Michael's face had softened, and she had whispered to Philippa her experiences, the times she felt so much like she needed to leave herself.

 

_What can I do,_ whispered Michael, _to help reclaim your body?_

 

_Turn me into something. Make me art, Michael, make me something you love._

 

_I always love you, Philippa. Always._

 

Michael spent hours poring over techniques and scars and tattoos. Michael had taken her and made her _beautiful_. Philippa blinks heavily. A few stray tears spatter her pillow, and she can't help squeezing Michael's hand tight.

 

“Mm, morning, Philippa,” Michael mumbles. Philippa _mm_ s in response, stretching and flipping herself in Michael's arms until she can bury her face in Michael's shoulder. Her eyes slip open to warp light, painting the room in blue. Michael’s curls, saturated blue and black, brushing against her cheeks. Michael holds her even tighter, pulling her close until Philippa can hear her heartbeat. “Is something wrong, love?” Michael prods.

 

“I love you, my darling,” Philippa responds, pressing kisses to the curve between Michael's shoulder and neck. Michael rubs her back in circles.

 

“Is it bad today, my lovely?” Michael asks, her voice quiet. Philippa nods, silently, and Michael kisses Philippa's skull. “What can I do?”

 

“I don't know,” Philippa croaks, nestling herself inwards. Michael strokes Philippa, her hands tracing over lines and stars. Philippa sobs.

 

“Shh, shh, love, it’s okay, it’s okay. I love you, Philippa. I love you so much,” Michael soothes, stroking the soft, loose fabric of Philippa’s sleep shirt. Philippa tenses.

 

“Say--say that again, _please,_ my Michael…” Philippa manages, muffled by Michael’s pyjamas. Michael exhales and curls protectively around Philippa’s trembling frame.

 

“I love you, I love you, I love you so much, my Philippa, I promise. I love your patterns, Philippa, I love your scars and your hair and your colour and your smile, I love your expressions and I love when you tell me how you feel, and I love you for understanding me, I love you for your emotions and I love you for your brain. I’m in love, Philippa, I’ve never felt anything like this before,” Michael breathes, feeling Philippa tense and relax under her arms.

 

“I--I...love you,” Philippa heaves, her hands shaking as they clench the fabric of Michael’s tank top, pulsing in time to her erratic heartbeat. Michael’s hands rise to Philippa’s hair, twining her fingers through the curls Philippa meticulously sets each morning, the patches of shorter, rougher hair that have only just started growing again.

 

“Can you tell me what the worst part is, Philippa?” Michael whispers, gliding her hands through the silky texture of Philippa’s locks.

 

“My, oh, my heart, Michael, it’s in the wrong place, it’s broken, it’s half-machine, Michael...my _love_.” Philippa lets a choked whine escape. Michael’s expression softens, and she releases Philippa from her grip. Philippa clings still.

 

“Philippa, trust me. Let me go for a moment,” Michael asks, gently. Philippa does what she says, reluctantly. Michael guides her to lie on her back, and as her fingertips touch the collar of Philippa’s shirt, she prods _“may I?”._

 

Philippa nods, squeezing her eyes shut as she feels Michael pull downwards. She shivers when Michael’s lips press against the raised skin, touching each point, each star over her heart-constellation, with reverent fingers, celestial kisses. Her fingertip touches a point, her soft, warm lips follow, and Philippa cries, running her fingers through the curls of Michael’s hair.

 

Michael finishes by releasing Philippa’s hem and hovering over her face for a moment before letting their lips touch, their kiss happen. Michael slides her hand up and down Philippa’s neck to the beat of a song she’s sure they’re both thinking of, lets Philippa’s thumbs, one cold, one warm, brush against her cheeks. Philippa’s ribs heave as Michael kisses her.

 

“My love, you are _perfect_ ,” Michael murmurs, bracing their foreheads together. “I think your heart’s all right.”

 

“I think one of them is perfect,” Philippa responds, quiet. Michael presses two fingers over Philippa’s hearts.

 

“Both of them are perfect, Philippa, because they’re both part of _you_ , my love.” Michael lets herself fall back to the mattress. “Nothing could be more perfect than you,” she says, reverently.

 

Philippa glances to her side, and Michael’s smiling face looks back at her, cloaked in glowing warp light, haloed by her curls, warm and inviting, cheekbones perfect, her eyes curving with her grin, a graceful hand on her pillow, her arms strong, illustrated by the flowing blue behind her, and Philippa feels in her half-machine heart that Michael’s smile is more than she deserves.

 

“You are perfect, darling,” she croaks, and Michael fits her hands into Philippa’s as she leans forwards.

 

“So are you.”

 

Philippa finally believes her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another tw for dysphoria here, just heads-up! and a tiny bit of internalized transphobia

Michael keys in the passcode to their quarters, the doors sliding open to reveal Philippa, prodding at an open panel on her leg. Michael smiles. Their couch is covered in various tools, a toolbox beside Philippa. Her legs are stretched out on the table, both feet socked, and the shorts she wears don't come close to hiding all of the constellations that pattern her leg. Michael's soundwave design is smeared with oil. Philippa's various plant projects sit in windows, on tables, in her bookshelf, and on every other available flat surface nearby. Michael pushes a hanging vine out of her face as she steps in, smelling the floral scents of her quarters. Philippa's leg sparks, and she yelps  _ oh, dammit _ !, to Michael's amusement. The plants filter the sunlight coming from the binary star system the Discovery is studying into a warm green-yellow hue. 

 

“Welcome home, love! Come sit,” Philippa orders, patting the cushion beside her, eyes still fixated on her leg. Michael pushes a few screwdrivers and spanners out of the way as she sits, leaning her head on Philippa's shoulder. Philippa looks over and sets her tools aside, closing the panel she was working on, and tosses an arm around Michael's shoulders. A wrench lands in a flowering plant. 

 

“I know that face,  _ bibi _ . What's wrong?” Philippa prods, wiping her hands on a grease-stained rag. Michael stares at the telescope on Philippa's arm, running her fingers over the cut skin. Philippa lets her other hand spread across the outside of Michael's head, feeling the soft, short curls, and pulls her in closer. Michael sighs and closes her eyes, pressing her forehead to Philippa's cheek. 

 

“It's...I've felt so awful today. I keep looking at myself and being confused, where did this come from? I haven't felt like this since prison, I don't know  _ why _ I feel like this,” Michael mumbles. Philippa strokes her cheek, gently. “I just--I know it's silly, but I don't understand why  _ I  _ feel this. I hardly remember being presented as a boy. I can think of one time that I was called Gabrielle. I've been Michael Burnham since I was  _ five _ , Philippa. And now I look down and wonder why I look like me, Phil, I don't understand,” Michael croaks, her voice crackling. Philippa traces her cheeks. 

 

“Feelings aren't logical, Michael. They're not. It's okay to feel this, Michael, it's okay, my love. You know I love you, darling. Never worry about that,” she soothes, running her fingers through Michael's hair. Michael's arm nestles itself around Philippa's waist. “What else can I do?”

 

“Be here, I suppose, I--I’m not sure, Phil.” Michael curls into herself, eyes damp. “I'm afraid--I just want to be held, Philippa, I'm so scared and I don't know  _ why,  _ I don't know why, I'm so--I…” Michael trails off, burying her face in Philippa's shoulder. 

 

“Okay, baby, okay. Let's get you into bed, into some different clothes, and I'll take care of you, darling,” Philippa murmurs. “Did you take your shots this morning?”

 

“N-no, not for--” Michael inhales sharply. “--not for a while.” Philippa's lips press against her forehead. 

 

“It's just chemical, darling. You feel like this because of a low e count. It's okay, baby,” Philippa soothes, tracing circles on her cheek. “It's chemical imbalance, Michael, it's not you. I'll set up an appointment with Tracy first thing tomorrow, all right? We can find a solution. I promise. Right now, I can give you your shot, we can cuddle, and I'll listen, baby.”

 

“I--I...all right...I'm--” Michael stammers, clutching at Philippa's waist. 

 

“Can you stand up? This'll be more comfortable in a bed,” Philippa adds. “And you can put on something that makes you more secure.”

 

“Can you...can you help me?” Michael asks, a childishness to her voice. Philippa runs her palm along the side of Michael's face. 

 

“Of course, darling. It's a shame I can't carry you like I used to,” Philippa says, grinning, as she helps Michael to her feet and steadies her with an arm on her shoulder. “Breathe, Michael. Breathe in, there we go, breathe out.” Philippa continues her guiding breaths as she and Michael pick their way around flowering trees and succulents to the door, through the door, and to the bed, where Philippa guides Michael to a sitting position. 

 

“Breathe in, breathe out, darling. Is it okay if I look in your closet to get different clothes for you?” Philippa prods, gently. 

 

“Yeah…” Michael mumbles, and Philippa kisses her forehead before padding over to the closet. “There’s--there’s…” Michael stammers.

 

“I remember,” Philippa assures, having already found the shirt. Michael nods, her throat working. Philippa smiles, grabbing the remaining articles of clothing and placing them next to Michael, in a careful pile.

 

“Can I go get your shot? I can stay if you’d like,” Philippa adds, smoothing the jeans next to Michael. Michael unzips her uniform jacket with shaky fingers.

 

“No, I…” Her voice cracks. “You go. I’ll change.” 

 

“Will you remember to breathe?” Philippa’s hand squeezes Michael’s. Michael nods and makes a show of breathing in and out. “Good girl,” Philippa affirms.

 

“I’ll,” Michael inhales. “I’ll be good for you.” Philippa kisses her forehead before traipsing out of their room.

 

The metallic box that contains Michael’s hypos is right where Philippa left it, next to her vintage science-fiction novels. She runs her fingers over the spine of  _ The Cage _ before snatching the container off the shelf. The golden-green colour that floods their quarters shines across the tempered metal of Michael’s kit in a mesmerizing way, and Philippa’s eyes fixate on it so much that she walks directly into a hanging plant. 

 

Tiny, fragrant pale purple blossoms shower her, and Philippa laughs as they bounce off her shoulders and entangle themselves in her hair, pooling at her feet. She crouches and runs her fingers through the puddle of petals, almost wistfully. 

 

On a whim, she grabs a pair of pruning scissors and whips around the room, looking for a suitable specimen. She settles on a palm-sized orange flower, the petals streaked with red and yellow, a specific variant of an old Earth flower she can’t remember the name of. 

 

_ My best work. _

 

Philippa waves away a mechanical pollinator and snips some of the flowers at the base, the most vibrant petals. She selects the largest flowers. In a motion she remembers well, her fingernail pokes a hole a few centimetres down from the bloom, and she feeds a new flower through the slit, facing the opposite way, and her wreath continues. She finishes with a long blade of more flexible grass, tying the ends together. It appears as beautiful as she’d hoped. She holds it up to the light, and stares for a moment at the natural art of her crown.

 

Philippa stands, casting aside the scissors, and weaves around several pots to the bedroom. She knocks as a pleasantry. The doors slide open, and Michael looks up at her while adjusting her jacket. 

 

“Michael? Breathe, darling,” Philippa soothes, skating fast across the room to her bedside. Michael lets out her breath as Philippa sits down next to her. “Put your hand on my stomach and follow my breathing, Michael,” Philippa orders, softly, placing her kit and wreath next to her and rolling up the bottom of her shirt. Michael's palm presses against her torso,  tough skin hesitant against constellations, the beginnings of muscle. Her tremoring breaths begin to line up with Philippa's. Quiet minutes pass. 

 

“There we go. You look beautiful, my love. I have something for you,” Philippa murmurs, placing her ring of flowers gently around Michael's curls. Michael makes a small peep, a tiny exclamation of joy. 

 

“Tha--ank...you,” Michael stutters, removing her hand from Philippa's stomach. Philippa rubs her back, opening the kit with her free hand and loading a hypo. 

 

“Do you want me to do it?” Philippa wonders, feeling the satin texture of Michael's jacket. Michael shakes her head and plucks the hypo out of Philippa's hand, reaching up and pressing it against her neck. It hisses and she winces at the cold sensation. 

 

“Good girl. You look very pretty, Michael, do you feel a bit better, baby?” Philippa prods, taking back the hypospray and cleaning off the end with a provided wipe. 

 

“Yes, I--” Michael's voice breaks, and her hands come up to fill in the gaps.

 

_ I'm feeling better. _

 

“Good,” Philippa affirms, letting her eyes drift from the brilliant red jacket, to the soft grey shirt, to her dark jeans, and her heart pounds in her throat. She slides the kit off the bed for something to do. 

 

Michael is  _ desperately  _ gorgeous. 

 

Philippa rests her hand on top of Michael's, stroking the bones and tendons of her fingers. She lets Michael's head hit her shoulder, and she manoeuvres her way to a lying position, nuzzling the hair brushing against her neck. 

 

“Hey, my love, I think you look stunning in anything you wear. Or don't,” Philippa adds. Michael snorts and cuddles in more. “And I want you to know that I love you very much, darling, and I'm so glad that I get to be here with you, so thankful that I get to have my beautiful Michael right by my side. Promise me you'll take care of yourself. I can't stand it when you're upset like this,  _ bibi _ ,” Philippa murmurs, adjusting her grip on Michael. 

 

“Oh...okay.” 

 

Michael lets a few wispy moments of silence pass. 

 

“Are you going to-going to ask me why I didn't take my medication?” Michael wonders, her voice minuscule in the quarters. Philippa exhales into her hair. 

 

“Do you want me to?” Philippa responds, in a careful tone. 

 

“I'm afraid of answering,” Michael admits, and Philippa feels the urge to hold her closer. 

 

“I won't, then.”

 

“I think--I think I'm scared, Philippa, that I'm not quite a woman, not physically, or mentally, at least not enough. I'm scared that you won't love me, and if--if I give myself a reason, it won’t hurt,” Michael mumbles, in a somber tone. Philippa almost gasps. 

 

“No, oh, baby! Of course you are enough, Michael. If you are a woman, which you are, your body is a woman's body, physical attributes be damned. I have fallen in love with trans women before, Michael, and their physical bodies have never mattered to me, my love, it doesn't matter if they have masculine or feminine or undetermined physical attributes, whether their chromosomes are xx or xy or any other permutation, because I am not attracted to a person’s  _ chromosomes _ . I am attracted to you because of your personality, Michael, I am attracted to people based on that, barely on physical appearance. You are kind and loving and you are so brilliant, Michael. I love you, and you know that I love you. I love you so much,” Philippa says, her voice crackling with tears.

 

“But…” Michael trails off. 

 

“It's okay for you to be anxious, but I will never, never stop loving you because of the fact that you are trans, Michael. You are quite far along in your transition, as well, not that progress in transition is what validates trans people. And plenty of people with female-shaped bodies have different chromosomes, and that doesn't affect the fact that they are women or men or something else, it's only a tiny bit of their biology,” Philippa explains, talking faster but attempting to keep her voice calm. 

 

“I…” Michael blinks, tears making their way down her cheeks. Philippa cups her cheeks in her hands, long fingers against the bones of her face.

 

“Michael, you are always enough for me,” Philippa whispers, voice hoarse, stroking her face and pressing two fingers to Michael’s lips. “You were always enough, you are still enough.”

 

Michael releases a pent-up sob and buries her face in constellations, Philippa’s textured skin softer than anything, and Philippa’s arms wrap around her shaking form, holding her with the right amount of pressure, soothing her.

 

“I--I... _ Philippa _ !” Michael exclaims, and Philippa rubs her back with light fingers, tracing circles around her spine. 

 

“I know, darling, let it out, love.”

 

\---

 

Michael finishes wiping the last of her tears and settles back to her position in Philippa’s arms. Philippa  _ hmm _ s, pressing her nose to the crown around Michael’s head and inhaling the perfume scent.

 

“I have something to tell you,” Michael whispers, with a bit of a sheepish tone, adjusting their blanket to cover her nose. 

 

“Oh?” Philippa responds, positioning a hand around Michael's waist, inching closer. 

 

“You have flowers in your hair.”

 

Philippa laughs.

 

“So do you, baby.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

Michael lets her legs slip into the water, the silky-smooth ocean gentle against her calves. She stares up at the sky, inky-black slate fading into the gentle movement of a sea the same colour, the moon shattering to glowing shards at her feet. Her fingers run along the worn texture of the dock, small chunks of moss sticking to the wood.  The air pushes down on her, humidity almost stifling, even at this hour. She inhales, salt-tinged air filling her lungs. The tremors in her body begin to pass. 

 

“You know you can wake me up, darling,” comes Philippa's voice, and Michael turns to find Philippa, wrapped in a silky, thin robe, carrying two mugs. “I made tea.”

 

“Thank you, Philippa,” Michael whispers, accepting the steaming drink. Philippa sits down next to her, allowing her bare toes to slide into the water next to Michael's. Her little finger hooks itself around Michael's, the sides of their hands pressing together. 

 

“What happened, darling?” Philippa prods, staring out at the expanse of the sea. 

 

“Just...just a nightmare. I'm all right,” Michael mumbles, swinging her feet slowly in the water, mesmerized by the ripples. 

 

“Oh, baby. Come wake me up. Or call Kat, she's at work now, or the line, or Vi’s office. You're talking to Vi tomorrow, right?” Philippa asks, watching Michael take a sip of her tea, the faded remnants of her lipstick sticking to the mug. 

 

“Yeah.”

 

Philippa feels the quiet of the air, the rhythm of the sea, the tension of this time of night, the greyscale of dark, and with her eyes closed, she hears the way that Michael's breathing shakes. Her hands tremble, as well, drops spilling onto her sleep shirt. Philippa wordlessly steadies the drink. The smell of her floral tea hits her again as she helps Michael lower her beverage. It takes effort not to pull Michael into her lap and coax her to sleep, to cradle her, and  _ feel  _ her, feel her soft and gentle and perfect as she curls up in Philippa's arms--

 

Michael pushes off against the dock and slides into the water. 

 

Michael lets the water hold her, eyes shut and relaxed. Her curls begin to float, weightless, as her body descends. Her shirt and pants flow around her, twisting with movement. Sand touches the tips of her feet, and she lets the salty taste of the water slip into her mouth; a droplet of Philippa, of ocean kisses and coaxing into the blue, of constellations and  _ baby, I need you _ , of  _ Philippa, I had a nightmare,  _ of  _ come here, cuddle _ , of  _ please don't touch me today _ , of textures and feelings and  _ love _ . The sea is intoxicating. Michael runs her tongue over the roof of her mouth, sweeping up the last bit of ocean before her head breaks the surface and she breathes again. 

 

“Michael, baby, you scared me!” Philippa murmurs. Michael gulps air, her curls now drenched and pulling down, stretching out. Her shirt plasters to her shoulders. Philippa smiles, illuminated by gentle moonlight. 

 

“I'm--I'm sorry, Philippa,” Michael manages, between breaths. She grabs the dock to steady herself. 

 

“It's all right. Can I join you?” Philippa prods, taking a sip of her tea. She lets the burn from the too-hot drink roll down her throat. 

 

“Yes...yes, please, Philippa.” Michael releases the dock to shrug off her shirt, tossing the fabric back to where she was sitting. Philippa stares at her strong arms, at the gentle curve of her back. She reaches over to touch the constellation on Michael's shoulder. Michael shivers at her fingers, but doesn't stop her, lets her explore the tender skin of her scar. 

 

“This is beautiful, Michael.  _ You _ , my love, are beautiful,” Philippa whispers. Michael rests her head on Philippa's thigh, soft cloth and warm skin against her cheek. Philippa strokes her back, avoiding the straps of her undergarment. Water laps at them. 

 

“Philippa, you're beautiful,” Michael murmurs. Philippa's hands trace across Michael's head. Michael’s fingers tighten around the dock.  

 

“I'm going to jump in now, baby, would you mind moving your head?” Philippa's low tone is hoarse, almost. Michael nods and peels herself off of Philippa's leg. She leans against the dock beside her. Philippa tilts her head to remove her hearing aid, placing the molded plastic safely next to her tea. Michael swirls her legs. 

 

Philippa casts aside her robe, smoothing her undershirt and shorts, before plunging into the sea and sending water flying. Michael laughs, Philippa rising to the surface again with her hair plastered to her face, shining in the moonlight, her grin showing through the cracks across her face. Soft fabric, heavy with salt, slides along Michael's side. Philippa tucks weighted, dripping locks behind her ear. 

 

“Mm, love, night swimming is  _ exquisite _ . You look like a siren in this light, Michael, here to steal me from my cruel and unfaithful husband and sweep me down to the bottom of the sea,” Philippa says, in a husky whisper, nestling her head into the side of Michael's neck. Michael twists her arm to hold Philippa loose but comfortable. 

 

“ _ You  _ look like an unhappy wife in need of rescuing, and I would be happy to call you down to the depths of the ocean and love you more than he ever could,” Michael responds, her fingers mapping the side of Philippa's face. Philippa responds by pressing a kiss to Michael's collarbone, her chin washed by waves. 

 

“When you carry me to the sea floor, will you take something with you?” Philippa's voice is tender, careful, and blooms of breath expand across Michael's neck. Michael relaxes, breathes. 

 

“It depends, Miss Georgiou,” she answers, smiling. “You'll have to show me.”

 

Philippa disentangles herself from Michael's grasp and reaches for her robe. She rifles through the pockets, Michael watching on in amusement, Philippa's tongue caught between her teeth as she palms a small object. 

 

“I think, Siren, that this is small enough?” Philippa holds the item up, and Michael stares at it for a moment, trying to distinguish the shape in the dark. She squints, seeing it's metal, and the size of a small pebble. Philippa chuckles at her, and places the object in her hand, mirth clear. Michael rubs her thumb over the cool surface, mapping through touch. 

 

It's a ring, a slim band, cool to the touch, soft around the edges, and with a convex, polished stone set into a side. 

 

Michael is sure her stunned expression shows, even in the near-dark. 

 

“Of course, if this object is unwanted, now or ever, I wouldn't mind leaving it on shore,” Philippa explains, gently, carefully, eyes falling low. Michael smiles.

 

“I suppose,” Michael begins, touching her nose and forehead to Philippa's, “that I could find space for this, Miss Georgiou, so long as you stay with me for as long as you like,” she finishes, in a calm whisper. 

 

“I can do that,” Philippa responds, and she adjusts the angle of her head to kiss Michael. Michael kisses her back, salty-sweet in her mouth, warm lips, heavy water. Philippa's hand rests on the back of her neck, the other one clinging tight to the dock. Michael works the ring onto her finger and drapes her arm around Philippa's waist, the soothing texture of her shirt across her forearm. Philippa loosens the kiss for a moment to breathe, resting her head on Michael's shoulder.

 

“My love, thank you,” Michael murmurs, close to Philippa’s ear, hair sticking to her cheeks and eyes shut.

 

“I love you, Michael, and as nice as that whispering feels, wrong ear,” Philippa answers, in one breath. Michael laughs and switches to Philippa’s other ear, snatching a kiss as she settles herself. 

 

“I'm sorry, Phil, I forgot. Thank you, for the ring,” Michael repeats, breathing in the salt and flower and dirt smells that linger on Philippa. 

 

“It's nice, though. When you whisper in that ear, even if I can barely hear you, baby. It feels lovely,” Philippa murmurs, quietly. “It's soothing. I...maybe, if you don't mind, you can do that when I wake up in the middle of the night?” Philippa shifts her hand to the middle of Michael's spine, adjusting her head. 

 

“I think I can manage that. My siren song for you, Philippa,” Michael says, in a hushed tone. Philippa hums, releasing the dock and tracing her thumb over the ring on Michael's finger, with a giggle. 

 

“Hmm?” Michael lilts, pressing her cheek to Philippa’s. Philippa kisses the hinge of her jaw. 

 

“I made it through all the  _ shit  _ of Klingon torture, of dying multiple times, of being stabbed in the lung and heart, of the eight million surgeries, made it through artificial organs, regained full sight in a  _ very _ damaged eye, and a tiny little gene manages to steal away my hearing. All of this, and genetics just takes what it likes. I know what you're going to say, Michael,  _ it's just the left ear, that's what the surgeries are for, your right ear will be okay, keep the aid in _ , I know. And it caused me to miss my fiancée’s response to my proposal. It's funny, that's all.” Philippa kisses Michael, in a short peck. Michael's dazed, happy expression shows. 

 

“I can call you my fiancée now, Philippa,” she whispers, reverently. Philippa beams.

 

“Soon, I get to call you  _ wife _ ,” Philippa responds. “Soon.”

 

“I like that. We could invite a few people over for dinner, and--and have them as witnesses. I don't think I could do a ceremony,” Michael confesses, sheepishly. Philippa giggles, and leans back from Michael's embrace to answer.

 

“A ceremony is too much, but dinner sounds  _ perfect _ . Who were you thinking of?” she asks, her hand playing with weighted curls. 

 

“Saru, Tilly. Jett, maybe, but I'm afraid to put you and her in the same room again. Kat. Nikos. How about you?” Michael murmurs, cupping her cheek and running her thumb over her cheekbone. Her ring leaves a small band of cool against Philippa's face. 

 

“You read my mind, Michael. Shall we invite them over in a few weeks? If that's too soon--” Philippa corrects herself, expression turning to worry. 

 

“No, no. That's--that's good, Philippa, I...I love you.” Michael smiles. Philippa presses her lips to Michael's cheeks, kissing light tears away. 

 

“Oh, Michael, let me show you something! Hold up your ring,” Philippa orders, slipping out of Michael's grasp. Michael awkwardly holds up her hand in a limp motion as Philippa bites her prosthetic thumb and flicks a switch with her tongue. The inside of her mouth glows through her cheeks. 

 

“Philippa?” Michael asks, thoroughly confused. 

 

“Added a flashlight-clicker a few months ago,” she explains, shining a light on the back of Michael's hand. The stone is quite small, but looks as if the entire cosmos compresses into the gem. Michael stares at the purple and blue and green hues, mesmerized. The stars glitter as she tilts her hand.

 

“Do you...do you have one? A ring?” Michael mumbles, fixated on her finger. 

 

“Rings are terrible. I didn't have one made for myself. I don't know if I'll wear one.” Michael's head perks up. 

 

“How about fabric? We could braid it, for some nice texture. And maybe a little squishy jewel,” Michael suggests, eyes gleaming, even as Philippa turns off her thumb-light. 

 

“Michael, if you're saying you not only don't mind, but are  _ encouraging _ me to wear a stim toy as a wedding ring, I have no doubts about who I'm marrying,” Philippa says, grabbing Michael's hand and grazing her thumb over the tendons in her hand. “Why don't we head back to bed, love, it's getting a bit late and I've got to go back to Paris for my surgery, and you've got an appointment with Vi.”

 

“Good idea. My fingers--” Michael holds them up. “--seem to think it's time to get out.”

 

Philippa laughs and deposits one last kiss on Michael's lips before taking a few quick strokes to the side and traipsing back to shore, Michael trailing in her wake. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
